Till Everything is Settled
by MissPixieWay
Summary: What if 'God knows it's enough that I can kiss you' meant more? What if it meant they had given in once before, and had struggled to refrain from doing so again? That both the Lady and her Chauffeur had been fighting temptation?


Sighing with a huff of pure exhaustion, Sybil pushed her hands to her hips to ease the pain of days work in a too tight uniform. The house was quiet, with the few soldiers still awake reading, writing or simply staring into space. Some reliving the horrors of war, others simply unable to believe their new place of safety. A clock ticked, papers shuffled, windows rattled. The odd servant or nurse pottered here and there, but generally the house was falling into a soft slumber.

But one person was _sure_ to be awake.

Probably twiddling with a car part or reading through a paper or writing a letter to his family.

Sybil bit her lip. It was too late, too dark, too risky to go to him now. If she was caught how would she explain herself? She could hardly claim she was ordering the motor! Who on Earth would need to travel now? And she most definitely couldn't say she thought she had left something in the back of the car, a book or glove or something, for it would be expected of her to send a maid to check!

But she had to tell him. She just _had_ to. All day it had been eating away at her, biting at her when she least expected it. What had made her do it? What in the world had made her act so foolishly? It had just happened so fast. She never expected Mary to question into her and Branson's relationship. Hadn't been prepared when her sister had demanded the truth. Fair enough she had caught them in a moment of tension, _'You're too scared to admit it, but you're in love with me'_, but that still hadn't readied Sybil for the inquiry. All she knew was that it ended with the unthinkable confession.

_"He said he loves me and he wants me to run away with him."_

She was halfway down the darkened concrete drive before she even realised she had made the decision to go to him. And when she did, she reasoned that she had come this far without detection, so may as well continue.

Her steps, making a hollow, clip-clop sound on the cold grey, gradually slowed the closer she got to the garage. What had started as stong determination had turned into spreading apprehension. How was she going to tell him? Just walk in and say that their secret was not so any more? She really ought to have thought about this more... But too late. She was at the door. And just as she had expected, it was wide open, spilling a golden glow out into the star studded night.

She felt a little smile curl across her lips as she entered the metal smelling room. For there he was, the family chauffeur, knelt, almost down on his knees, tugging at some sort of pipe beneath the car as if to test it's strength. Typical.

Sybil couldn't quite say how long she stood there watching him, but it was soon time to say something else when Branson noticed her presence by the door. He jumped to his feet rather quickly, dusting his palms against one another, and for a moment she thought he was about to stand straight and proper to address her. But then, once he was obviously satisfied his hands were free from grit and grime, shoved them into his pockets and leant against his work table.

For a mortifying second, Sybil felt her cheeks rise with heat, and had to lower her head to cover the blooming blush. It was just- Well- He was just- It hardly took a _genius _to notice how handsome of a man Branson was. And when he acted so casual, so clearly comfortable around her, well it did something to her she couldn't explain. Something she certainly didn't like!

He might have said 'Good evening', or questioned her reason for being there, as when she looked up, her blush now a safe blossom colour, he was looking at her rather curiously. Panicking at the thought of having to ask him to repeat himself and reveal her embarrassing chain of thought, Sybil spoke the first thing that came to mind.

"So, Bates is back." Yes, that was good. That was a reasonable topic enough. After all, that was common knowledge above _and_ below strairs. "Papa must be pleased."

Sybil didn't miss how Branson had now folded his arms, the crisp white of his shirt glowing in the lamplight. And she certainly didn't miss his soft smile, also glowing in the light, or was it? Was it just glowing on it's own? "And Mr Carson won't be sorry."

A moment of silence. A moment to consider. A moment to swallow her fear and just go for it. "Branson, there's something you ought to know." Her words propelled her forward, almost as though being closer, being able to say them in so much quieter a voice would lessen their weight slightly. But when she stopped within feet of him, even closer beneath his sudden interest piqued eyes, she almost didn't manage to form the words. "I've told Mary."

He simply stared for a moment, almost uncomprehending, and she was worried that she hadn't been explanatory enough. But when he smiled again, that belly aching smile, his reply came low as he hung his head to his shoes. "I see. Well, that's me finished then. Without a reference."

She may as well have been in York again, listening as he told her he was going to hand in his notice and be gone by the time she got back home. For it was that same, stomach tugging, mind meddling feeling that overwhelmed her now. She didn't want that, _at all_, but she didn't know then, and she didn't know now, how to put her true feelings into words. "No, she's not like that. You don't know her. She wouldn't give us away."

"But she won't encourage us?" He moved then and she had to take a quick breath. It was okay when he was sat still, where she could judge his facial expressions. But moving? Now she would have to judge what that meant _too_? Urgh, this was too much already. She should have stayed in the house. But she hadn't, and he deserved an answer.

"No." Her sigh seemed to fall on deaf ears, for when Branson stood up straight before her, hands in pockets, he had a- a- a smile on his face? Branson, the man who had tried to convince her that her family would come around was suddenly happy that her sister showed no sign of _ever_ doing so? "Why are you smiling? I thought you'd be angry?"

"Because that's the first time you've ever spoken about us." He had taken a moment before answering. And when he did, she wasn't sure if she was glad he had or not. How had she been so careless as to talk of such a thing? When it was wrong, _so_ wrong, to encourage him in such a way? She felt another plume of red smudge her cheeks, but this time it was almost anger; anger at herself for speaking of something that should not, _could_ not, ever be possible. He seemed to notice her inner turmoil. "If you didn't care, you would've told them months ago."

And then it was easy, just _too_ easy, to let that anger out. At him. You have to be cruel to be kind as- Well, as someone in her family had probably once told her. "Oh, I see. Because I don't want you to lose your job, it must mean I'm madly in love with you."

But it didn't work. He didn't flinch. He didn't move. He didn't look at her with any less intensity. In fact, he seemed to stand a little taller, a little surer than before. "Well, doesn't it?"

"You say I'm a free spirit, and I hope I am." She could picture the moment now. They had been driving back to Downton from the hospital, or Ripon, probably on some errand or another, when she had commented on how dull it was to make the same journey so often. He had laughed; he had a lovely laugh, a laugh that, if possible, gave away his Irish lilt. Then he had told her that that was because she was a _free spirit_, that some people, people like her, didn't settle unless they were doing something daring or out of the ordinary. She had simply smiled in return, too taken with such a compliment too say anything in reply. She had been called beautiful before, had been praised for her wonderful manners and etiquette, but never before had she been called a free spirit.  
Now however, the memory of that comment didn't seem sweet, but sour, as though his suddenly demanding words seemed to contradict his past summation of her. More anger, more frustration, it was let loose now. "But you're asking me to give up my whole world and everyone in it."

But what angered her more, frustrated her more, was that he still just _stood_ there! Couldn't he see how this could never be, that it was wrong to keep talking like this? "And that's too high a price to pay?"

"It is a high price!" She had to stop him saying anymore. Because if he stopped believing in _them_, then maybe, just maybe, it would stop her from thinking about it to. Would stop the moments of imagination in which she were a bride, he the groom. Would put to bed the nervous giggles that bubbled from within her whenever she thought of her families reactions. "I love my parents, you don't know them. And I love my sisters and my friends."

But nothing, _nothing_, seemed to be able to waver his stubborn stance. Still he looked at her with determination, still he refused to back down. The only moment of weakness she saw was a shake of his head, a flick of his hand; as though her attempts at pushing him away were futile. "I'm not asking you to give them up forever. And when they come around, I will welcome them with open arms."

She changed tack. She knew it was a low blow, but her heart was beating too loud to hear now, her jaw too tight as she tried to keep her pulse from racing. "And what about your people? Would they accept me?" A rush of something a little like glee flickered inside at Branson's suddenly uneasy expression, at his hands now returning to his pockets. She pressed on. "And what about my work?"

But it was a step too far, for his next words stung. Like poison, they hurt her, they _really_ hurt her. "What work? Bringing hot drinks to a lot of randy officers?" She was barely able to notice through her sudden wounded haze that she had succeeded in cracking his collected veneer, for he was now full of expression, of emotion, of movement. "Look, it all comes down to whether or not you love me. That's all. That's it. The rest is detail."

A lot seemed to happen at once then. There was silence, a heavy, heated silence. And then she was staggering away from him, his words of passion suddenly _too_ much. Her arm was reaching out, her cold palm spreading on the wall for support. He was close, much closer than he had been. His face screwed up in not anger, but regret, a palm running through his hair, the other reaching out. Further and further until his fingers touched hers. She might have taken his hand, but she was pretty sure he had taken hers. Just like that first time, in the garden party. But they had been happy then...

"I have- have to go-"

He didn't listen, but gave her hand a little tug. "I'm sorry, that was wrong of me to say. I didn't mean it. Your work is important, it _is_, I was just running my mouth again as usu-"

"No, that isn't it." She was looking into his face, but her eyes had suddenly glazed over, just as her realisation had, and she could barely focus on his features. A dull thump pounded in her ears, she pulled her hand from his and walked around him, fingertips now rubbing her temples. "I just realised why I came down here."

She knew her voice had come a little lost, a little dreamy, so wasn't surprised when he questioned her in a tone of concern. "M'lady? Are you alright? I'm sorry to have upset you, I honestly never intended to-"

"Branson, please, just- I need you to be quiet a moment." A deep breath, pupils focused on a small crack of blue night visible through the creaking roof. "Can I ask you something?"

She turned back to him with more confidence than she really felt, but the lack of it in _his_ composure, fake or otherwise, forced her to look into his eyes. He reacted to that. "Of- of course?"

"It's just earlier, when I was talking with Mary, well I told her that-" She faltered, glancing downward at her twisiting fingers before gingerly peering back up. "-that you loved me."

Now he looked really worried, and spoke to her rather slowly. "Yes m'lady, you've already told me."

To say she felt like a fool would have been kind. Her face was drowning in colour once again as her bottom lip found a moments solace between her teeth. "No, I mean- What I'm trying to say is, earlier I thought I wanted to come down and tell you what I had revealed to Mary, but, that _isn't_ the case at all."

"It isn't?" A flash of something shone in his eyes, his voice barely above a whisper.

She patted her hands twice against her thighs, anything to stop their twisting battle of knuckles. "No, it isn't. I think, what's been bothering me, what I thought was guilt, was actually uncertainty. I told Mary you loved me, but I don't know if you _do_."

There. She had said it. Now all she had to do was wait. And it seemed like a long one. For after her confession, Branson seemed to shrink back a little, almost as though he was scared of something. His hands moved in and out of his pockets almost five times before he ran a palm across the back of his neck, looking down at the floor as he did so. He shuffled his feet and swung his free arm back and fourth. But just before Sybil was about to make a highly flustered excuse to leave, his mouth merged into a smirk and he balled his fists to his side as he looked at her. "Do you want me to say it?"

Say it? Oh no, oh my, wrong, wrong, _wrong_. "Yes, I have to hear it."

"Good, because I was going to anyway." He took a step forward, not just the one, but many, until he was stood a mere foot away from her. She was too surprised by the sudden invasion of her space to hold her ground, and swept back until she hit the garage wall, a nervous spasm racked her stomach when Branson continued to advance on her. Her back and palms flat against the wall, she held her breath when he placed his forearm over her head against the bricks, shadowing them both. He took a breath, but she wasn't ready to try breathing again just yet. "I love you. There, that's simple terms. But I think you deserve more than that." She could make out every crease of his face, could hear the fabric of his shirt making static against the brick wall. "I am _very_ much in love with you. I have _never_ loved another woman the way I love you. And I very much doubt I could ever love again." He drew his forearm from above her head, splaying his hands either side of her face now, pinning her against the wall. "Unless, of course, you accept my proposal and agree to marry me, to become Mrs. Tom Branson. Then, maybe, I'll fall in love with _you_ all over again. Now, is that clear?"

And then he did something she would never forget; he kissed her. He leant foward, bringing a blanket of shadows with him, and kissed her. If she hadn't been propped against the wall, she was certain she would have fallen. His lips against hers felt so, so _soft_ as they pressed against them for the first time, and unbelievably, she managed to kiss back. Just a slight brush, hesitant in a foreign feild.

Then, _nothing_. Not having realised she had closed her eyes, she opened them and started a little at the sight of Brans- _Tom's_ so close. And then she understood; he wasn't drawing back, he was waiting for approval. Approval she knew not to give. Would be ridiculous to give. Was impossible _not_ to give. Pushing her lips together, she shuffled against the wall slightly, and raised her hands to fiddle with a button on his waistcoat.

The noise she made when his lips came back to her own surprised her. It was the sort of noise she had only ever made before when biting into something really delicious. But then she considered where her lips were, against Tom's, and she wasn't so surprised anymore.

At first she tried to count the kisses. Four... five... six... But then Tom moved his hands from the wall, laying one against her waist, the other beneath her jaw, and she lost count entirely. All she knew was that she didn't want to reach the highest number. Kissing was _wonderful_. Every time her lips met Tom's she melted a little. She could feel it in her veins, like a fizzle of sparks. And so she stayed eager, even daring to grip a little of his waistcoat in her fingers, hardly remembering to breathe as the kisses got quicker and quicker, when Tom ran his tongue across her bottom li-

She pulled back, breathing hard, eyes wide and startled. He was panting too, but his eyes were calmer, much calmer, surveying her with wonder. He pressed his nose to hers, ran a finger over her lip. "Sybil," She shook a little at the way he said her name, like it was painful. "Have you ever kissed a man before?"

Mortified, simply _mortified_. Was it that obvious? Could he tell she had never kissed before? That this was her first? Oh God, was she bad at it? Could you have good and bad kissers? If you could, she knew Tom was a good one, but then she could be a bad one... She almost tried to deny it, almost attempted to save face, but then her head shook of it's own accord. "No I- My season was just before the war, so I've never really had time to get to know many men. I haven't ever had a chance to k- kiss someone before. This is- _You_ are-"

"Your first kiss?" Both of his hands were on her face now, hot and course, his thumbs smoothing the delicate skin beneath her eyes. "You have no idea, _no_ idea, how that makes me feel."

She gripped his chest even tighter at this slight glimmer of hope. "Happy I hope? I was worried I wasn't very good..."

"Ha!" He pushed his lips to hers again, but when she leant forward he pulled back. "You're not bad, believe me, I could kiss you _forever_. I only asked because, when I tried to..." He tore his eyes away for a second before returning them with blazing intensity. "Sybil, do you trust me?"

Wishing that her body would start communicating with her mind before making such important decisions, Sybil exhaled when she felt herself nodding. "I do."

"Interesting choice of words."

His head bent low towards hers again, and she almost had to pull away from the kiss to sigh in relief that he _had_ kissed her again. Just like before it was good, _so_ good, tingles, and shivers, and sighing. And the more he kissed her, sometimes light, sometimes hard, she realised that kissing didn't just involve lips. Because as well as being buoyed by _those_ light brushes, she could feel his hands on her like fire. Running them wide across her ribs, low along her back, high on her neck, his fingers tickling her skin with unbearably fragility.

That was when she decided to use _her_ hands too. But she didn't really know how, so she let them decide for their own. Up and up and up they trailed, across his smooth waistcoat, to his tie, tugging slightly, to his collar, folding it over, to the scarce reveal of his neck. Yes, that was were she wanted them. And apparently he did too, because he sighed a little, and she had to kiss him a little harder to stop herself giggling at the feel of his growl on her fingertips.

But her hardened kiss made him do that _thing_ again, with his tongue. She felt it, warm and wet on her bottom lip, yet she didn't pull away this time._ 'Trust me'_. At first she wasn't sure what do to in response, so simply let him continue, and for the first time she considered this entire moment to be elicit. For the feel of his tongue against her inner lip, the meeting of such soft skin, had her legs turned to jelly, her stomach aching with this dull pain, odd, never before felt sensations gripping her body.

When he slid his tongue fully into her mouth, she didn't falter or pull away or panic, because she wanted him to, to kiss her _that_ way. And she definitely didn't falter in kissing him back, in that way, for the feel of his tongue on her own was like nothing she had ever, _ever_, experienced before. Was this normal? Did people kiss this way? She had certainly never _seen_ anyone kiss this way. But then again, the only kisses she had seen had been brief, them in themselves almost too much for public eyes. Maybe this was how the Irish kissed? Oh, what did she care! She was smiling into their kiss now, a combination of feeling so wonderful and so proud that she seemed to know exactly what she was doing. Tilting her head and sighing just when he did.

But then he pulled back, winding his arms around her waist, and pushing his forehead against her shoulder. She was a little stunned by the separation, but even more stunned at how weak the man who had so recently forced her against a wall now seemed. With hesitancy, she ran a hand into his hair, another across his shoulders. "Oh Sybil, what I want to _do_ to you."

"W-what do you want...?" She whispered her words into his ear, the curved skin hot on her lips.

In one fluid movement Sybil found herself hoisted atop the work table, so that her legs, thankfully loose in her nurse uniform, had to part to allow Tom to hold her close. He had a hand in her hair, messing it beyond repair, another trailing her thigh, pulling her dress into blue grey ripples. His tongue was drawing a slow, delicious pattern on her neck, causing her to squirm and writh against him, wanting to tilt her head away to allow him access, but desperate to lean close so as not to lose the desired contact.

"Oh Sybil, I shouldn't be-" He pressed his lips to her throat. "-doing this." His teeth grazed her cheek. "Not with you being so innoce- _Jesus_."

It was the start of the word _innocent_ that had made her do it. Had made her pull him away with a tug to his hair. Had made her tilt foward to press her lips to his neck. Had made her little tongue dart out, twirling and stroking along the stubble below his jaw. The prick of the hairs on her face felt oddly delightful. But nothing, _nothing_, could compare to the way she felt when Tom tightened his grip on her, clearly desperate for more.

Sybil knew she didn't know the rules of this particular game, but then again, she were a Lady and him a chauffeur, so where did rules really come into this _anyway_? In a daring move, she sucked, slowly, perhaps a little painfully, on his neck, pulling his skin, biting down gently. He groaned again, like he had just before he had kissed her in that Irish way. But what he also did, which he certainly hadn't done before, was sweep his hands over her chest, his palms contacting on her breasts. The warm liquid that spun through her veins was exquisite, utterly addictive, and so she bit his neck again, laving the skin with wet and warmth, a silent plea that he touch her again.

Now in nurse training, during those two months in which Sybil had learnt so much, not only in nursing, but of the feelings of particular _others_ too, she had been told of certain male... reactions? Was told what _may_ happen whilst washing or changing a wounded soldier. She had blushed rose red, and blood red when she was then told _why_ this could happen. But all that knowledge was still not enough to prepare her for when Tom pushed his hips against her, between her dangling legs, and her body tightened in pleasure at the feel of the hard bulge in his trousers.

She couldn't take anymore, she had to pull out of the kiss, it was all just too much. But she didn't let him go, infact, she pulled him closer, pulling his face to her own, nose to nose. They were both breathing as though they had run a mile in the summer sun, dragging in air as though they were drowning, their flushed skin burning in the flickering orange glow. Swallowing hard and closing his eyes, Tom bucked into her again, and Sybil couldn't stop the little whine that escaped her. Again and again and again he moved as he grunted and panted, Sybil gasping and sighing and crying out each time.

Feeling weak, as though she had barely slept in a month, Sybil watched with misty irises as Tom stepped back slightly, hands still on her hips, and tore his eyes from her. _Urgh_, he was so handsome. She followed his gaze. He was looking at the table she was sat upon, running his gaze along it's length, then looking back at her, sizing her up also. She swallowed. And waited. He stepped forward. She tried to pull him back to her, to pull his lips to hers. Then he stopped. He shook his head. And Sybil felt her face screw up in a moment of anguish as Tom parted from her to pace the garage.

Lip trembling, Sybil slipped from the table, clumsily smoothing her skirt with shaking hands. "Tom?"

He didn't reply, at least not a first. He was breathing rather loudly, leant heavily on the car, his palms gripping the roof as he looked down at the floor. "Go, please."

She felt wretched; what had just happened? What went wrong? "Tom I don't-"

"Sybil, go!" His shout ehoed throughout the suddenly cold garage. He turned to her, eyes blazing, fists clenched. "You don't understand, darling, you don't underst- Do you have _any_ idea what I was about to- to-? Oh God, _please_ go."

"Alright, alright I'll go." She half wanted to now anyway, for only in private would she ever allow herself to cry. "Goodnight."

A tear was already gathering in her eyes when she reached the garage opening, and for that reason she almost didn't stop when he called out to her. "Sybil, I'm sorry." She refused to turn around, so simply stood staring out into the black night. "I took that too far, and I'm sorry."

Her fingers trailed down the wooden doorway, she half looked over her shoulder. "We both did."

"We just- To be careful, we shouldn't _ever_ let that happen again." She heard a few steps, but still refused to turn, to look back. "Not until you..."

Two heartbeats. "Until I?"

"Until you decide if you want to marry me or not." His voice wasn't shaky now, or loud, or demanding, but steady and honest.

She closed her eyes, felt a tear trickle down her cheek. "But what if I never do?"

o o o

They came close, to giving into temptation, a fews times after that.

There were many heated words, born of smothered heat and passion, in which she would defend her lifestyle. Maybe if she could just emphasise the world between them...

_"We do have feelings, and don't make the mistake of thinking we don't!"_

There were moments when it was almost just too hard to ignore that magnetic, powerful, never easing tug between them...

_"Sometimes a hard sacrifice must be made for a future that's worth having."_

She even tried to avoid him, tried to stop her walks to the garage, tried to keep their conversation light, and proper. But it just meant that when she did break, and did seek him out, it was with more dangerous fervour than ever before...

_"It won't be long now, so will you wait?"_

But somehow, by some miracle, they didn't give in.

So when that fateful night came, when Sybil finally realised what she wanted, _who_ she wanted, what life she wished to lead, the relief was like nothing she, _they_, had ever felt before.

_"Yes, you can kiss me. But that is all until everything is settled."_

_"For now, God knows it's enough that I can kiss you."_


End file.
